


Time to Change the Channel

by angelblack3



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Horror, Mutilation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelblack3/pseuds/angelblack3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time for you to sing along~. Come on kids, you know the song~. It's Candle Cove~! With Pirate Percy and the Laughingstock~! It's so much fun, down here on the dock~! Come on kids, let's sing along~. It's Candle Cove <s>And we won't be here long</s>~!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Who needs sleep anyway?
> 
> Part of the spookylock writer's challenge on tumblr. 
> 
> This was inspired by the creepypasta Candle Cove, which you can read here. http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/Candle_Cove  
> All credit to the frankly horrifying idea of Candle Cove goes to this person.
> 
> This is my first time writing horror, so please be gentle with me. I'll post the rest as soon as it's finished, which should be soon.

“So, we’ve got four separate victims with their skin, uh,” Lestrade swallowed and continued, “gone. Nothing links them together. No relation, no crossed locations. They’re all in varying ages, genders, and ethnicities, but are tend to stay within their late thirties. All of them were watching, or about to watch, television, except that the screen was nothing but static according to the accounts of those who arrived on the scene. No similar movies or programs-”

“Yes, I know all of this Lestrade, thank you,” Sherlock spat the gratitude from his tongue. “I know all of the details that have so far proven to be completely trivial. What I would like to know is how four adults somehow ended up flayed alive, in their own living rooms, some in broad daylight, with no signs of forced entry, and no neighbors having heard a thing. Despite the walls that would give the thinness of tissue paper a good challenge.” 

Sherlock stopped his dizzying perusal of the entertainment system to finally face the body. 

The victim sat rigidly in the armchair, his face a rigid mask of horror. His hands were clawed into the arms, hard enough that some of the stitching had come loose. What was left of his lips was pulled back from his teeth in animal fright. His eyes were helplessly bugged, as there were no remnants of eyelids. His jaw was almost completely open, as if even now, he was still being forced to scream. 

A drop of ice made its way down Sherlock’s spine, and he resisted the urge to shake it off. He pulled up the cuff of the corpse’s shirt, and found that more exposed muscle was glistening wetly underneath the cotton. 

“This has been staged,” Sherlock said, popping open a button to reveal a bit more of the victim’s chest. Red ropes that had begun to stiffen with rigor mortis were exposed to the Inspector. 

“The killer shredded the skin somewhere else and set this up. There’s blood, but not enough of it to account for the extent of the damage. Not to mention that he would have had to remove the shirt in order to access his chest and,” a quick check, “legs. This isn’t the origin of the murder.”

Lestrade sighed, and Sherlock braced himself for what he knew the man was about to point out, “Sherlock,” the Inspector said after rubbing away the oncoming headache, “how could he have gotten the corpse in here? If he did do it somewhere else, carrying a skinned dead body up several flights of stairs is going to attract attention. No matter what you say about public observational skills.”

“It was the same for the other bodies,” Sherlock continued as if Lestrade hadn’t spoken. “The killer didn’t skin just what was immediately accessible. He took everything. There’s no possible way he could have done this in a flat with neighbors within five feet of each other. I don’t know how he’s moving the bodies, _yet_ , but he’s taking them somewhere else and then staging them back at their homes.”

He knew that Lestrade wanted to argue. He knew this because even he could see the flaws in this theory. This was unlike any other case he’d had before. The impossibilities kept lining up in front of his eyes, and he only had ribbons of theories to work with. 

Even the removal of the skin showed impossibilities. No matter how hard Sherlock looked, there was no point of entry. He could not find a single mark on the bodies that indicated a knife or a scalpel had been used. 

Apparently Lestrade’s temper was running thin with the case, since he decided to argue, “Even if the man was coming up here in the dead of night carrying the bodies in black bags, someone’s still going to be hear something.  
The lock being forced open, the sound of a heavy weight at four am, _something_. How the hell is an invisible man that can walk through walls and have super strength a good theory?”

Sherlock whipped toward Lestrade, snapping off his latex gloves for dramatic emphasis, “Is this you finally attempting to use your head? Because really Lestrade, I’d hardly call that empty shell on top of your neck a-“

“Alright, Sherlock, that’s enough,” John warned as he walked into the room. “I’ve just had to pay off the cabbie and console the grieving and traumatized flatmate. Being an arse to Greg really isn’t going to improve my,” he stopped when his eyes finally landed on the corpse. It wasn’t that he hadn’t noticed, but avoiding looking had been almost at the top of his priorities. 

John breathed a soft but strained, “Jesus,” at the sight of the mangled body. Even for an active war veteran, the sight was chilling. His eyes finally flicked over to the buzzing static of the television.

Sherlock started again, unwilling to take the sting of having his deductions questioned. Especially when it struck so closely to his own realizations, “It’s not my fault the Yard doesn’t possess enough sense to know when-“

“I didn’t know they had reruns of this.”

Lestrade and Sherlock both stared at John. The man’s wry sense of humor wasn’t uncommon. Even in the most grisly of murders, he found ways to make light of a situation that didn’t disrespect the victims. But this was different. John’s tone indicated sincerity, not just a desperate reach for a change in topic.

“God, I haven’t seen this show in ages. Thought they cancelled and buried the whole thing.” He finally registered the strange looks he was getting. Blinking, John asked, “What?”

Lestrade looked incredibly uncomfortable and hedged, “Mate, this really isn’t the time for-“

“What do you see?” Sherlock interrupted. 

John looked at Sherlock as if he had just spoken in Latin, “What do you mean? It’s right there on the screen, Sherlock, Candle Cove.” Blank stares, one intrigued and the other disturbed, spurned him on. 

“Do you two not remember? Maybe you didn’t watch it. It’s a program I used to watch when I was a kid.” He tilted his head back at the television, “It’s stuck on the opening credits though, that’s weird.” 

“That’s…that’s really not what’s weird here John,” Lestrade said, looking a little pale. 

John winced and said, “Sorry, didn’t mean to detract from,” he nodded towards the pile of meat. “It’s just that it seems a little off and-“

“John,” Sherlock interrupted, “there’s nothing on the screen.”

John blinked. His shoulders lifted and dropped from his long suffering sigh, “Look, I know it’s probably nothing, alright? Sorry I brought it up at all so can we please-“

“No. John,” Sherlock stressed every word, “Lestrade and I don’t see any program. We don’t see a title of any sort. Just static. There is _literally_ nothing on the screen.”

John’s eyes widened and then narrowed, “If this is some sort of trick Sherlock,”

“It’s not,” Lestrade interceded, “he’s right. We don’t see anything on the screen.”

John’s face dropped, as if the tethers to his façade of calm had been cut, “I don’t- I don’t understand.”

“What is Candle Cove? What do you see?” Sherlock asked urgently. 

“Like, like I said,” John tried after lightly shaking his head, “it’s the name of the show.” He cleared his throat, “Candle Cove was something I watched every week. I…I remember that it was on at an odd time. It was about a pirate that was scared all of the time and he had a girl with him on his adventures, and a creepy as hell ship that could talk to him, and this joke can stop at _any_ time you feel like it, thanks.” John’s words shook at the end, no matter how much he tried to hide it.

Lestrade opened his mouth to try and reassure John, but Sherlock spoke first, “We’re not joking. And you are quite likely a member of a mass hypnosis project.” 

“Oh, bullshit, Sherlock,” Lestrade spat, throwing his hands in the air. John stood stunned, either because of Sherlock’s revelation or Lestrade’s loss of temper was uncertain. “You’re telling me that this whole thing is a mass hallucination that John can still see?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock snapped, “I said mass _hypnosis_. The seventies were notorious for experimenting with drugs and questionable moral integrity, all for the sake of human psychology. It was most likely illegal, and John’s parents likely had no idea about the intention of the experiment. Based on his trigger, we could flip to any channel with static and he’d see the same thing.” He grabbed the remote and flipped from channel to channel to demonstrate. 

The screen rapidly changed to sports, the news, and a nature program before Sherlock threw the remote aside. Some cooking program droned in the background while Sherlock fired off his unraveling theories at the Inspector.

“We’re dealing with a serial killer with a previous history in psychology and drugs, and possibly hypnosis. I don’t know how he’s doing this,” he waved at the body, “none of them show any signs of drugs from blood tests. But a key phrase could render them catatonic, or susceptible to all sorts of conditioning behaviors. He’s likely a sadist. A rare one, he does this simply for the fun of it, as there’s no signs of sexual enjoyment or a metaphor of penetration on the bodies besides whatever knife he used for skinning. Start looking for-“

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, “What channel is this on?”

Sherlock’s face darkened into a glower and he seethed, “Honestly John, if you’re looking for an easy to replicate chicken recipe this is hardly-“ Lestrade nudged Sherlock with his elbow. Sherlock turned to redirect his ire, but stopped from the look on Lestrade’s face. 

Sherlock turned back to John. He felt his heart skip a beat. 

John was staring at the television, pale as a sheet. His wide blue eyes stared at the screen, and his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Sherlock only saw a plump and friendly looking woman (alcoholic, adulterer) cutting up onions. 

“It’s,” the words cracked their way out of John’s dry mouth, “it’s still on Candle Cove. And, uh,” he flicked his eyes to Sherlock’s, then back at the screen, “it’s started to play.”


	2. Chapter 2

After the thickest silence ever experienced in a cab, they were back at Baker Street. Back at the victim’s flat, Sherlock had turned off the television. It did nothing for John’s pinched expression, but his shoulders had slightly relaxed. Sherlock had told Lestrade what to look for in a barbed tone, and then practically pushed John all the way outside. 

John still looked ghastly, even in the warm lights of home. But at least the last tendril of his panic was finally gone from his eyes. 

After removing their coats, they both stood awkwardly in the living room. Neither of them knew what to do with the looming memory of the skinless victims and a television program only John could see. 

“So, uh,” John attempted, “what does this mean? The…the serial killer and the, um, methods? What does this have to do with me?”

Sherlock was silent. He stepped into the kitchen, filling the kettle for tea and haphazardly organizing the chemistry equipment on the table. Finally, he said, “It means you’ve been targeted.”

He dared to glance at John’s face. The soldier leaned against the doorway, trying to look casual as much as Sherlock was trying to look busy. 

John’s expression was one of carefully tamped exasperation, “I figured, Sherlock. I meant how am I able to see an old kid’s show on every channel? That doesn’t exactly fit your hypnosis theory, which rules out your lead.”

The detective let his surprise show on his face. John was more concerned about catching and stopping a serial killer than his own well being.

“It’s still a valid theory,” Sherlock argued when his voice returned, “some triggers have been known to have an incredibly powerful hold.”

John released a breath and pushed himself off of the wall. 

“Do you even hear yourself? Do you understand how _unlikely_ that is? Hell, if I know it, then so does Greg, but he’s still going to look into what you suggested because it’s the only halfway decent explanation we have.” 

John pulled down two mugs from the cupboard with steady hands. Sherlock was a little bereft that his original mechanism for coping was taken away, but he let John have it. Apparently it was a shared method. 

Sherlock continued to stack glass slides as he said, “Mass hypnosis is the _only_ explanation.”

“Except that there’s no way a hypnotic trigger phrase would induce a vivid hallucination,” John held up one finger, “which is shared by God knows how many people,” then another, “and keeps them oblivious and compliant while someone rips their fucking skin away.”

John pulled the whistling kettle off of the stove and poured the scalding water into the mugs. Some of it splashed over with his unsteady grip, but he clenched his hand over the handle and it stopped.

“How do you know it was a shared hallucination,” Sherlock demanded as he was handed his mug, “it could be a variant. A tv show, perhaps, but creativity and personal experience would have-“

“I asked the roommate if he’d ever heard the victim say anything about Candle Cove while you were getting a cab. He looked surprised. Said that the victim had mentioned it out of sudden nostalgia about two days before he died.”

They were both completely quiet. They sat across from each other while the tea sat uselessly between their cold hands. 

“It’s not an improbability Sherlock, so don’t pull that phrase with me,” John said using the same voice that meant he could still see sandstorms and bullets if he closed his eyes hard enough, “I know that you know how hypnosis works. Your book collection is in the damn living room, and I’m not blind. This…whatever this is, it’s an impossibility, through and through.” 

“What other reason is there?” Sherlock asked, and he detested the hint of desperation underlying his words. He didn’t want to acknowledge how close John’s observation was to the truth. But it burned in the back of his mind all the same. The thought that this wasn’t hypnosis, which was his only option, left…nothing. Absolutely nothing. Nothing to catch the killer, and no way to explain why his flatmate could see something other’s couldn’t. And that was unacceptable. 

“If you’re so keen on pointing out the flaws in my theory, then by all means, I invite you to do better.” Sherlock wished he could take back the acidic words the second they left his mouth. 

John’s expression shuttered. He grabbed his mug, and stood up so abruptly that the chair’s legs scraped in loud protest across the floor. He took out his teabag and left it on the table, right next to Sherlock’s mould cultures. 

John walked into the living room without answering. Either because he was unwilling or unable to. Sherlock was willing to bet that it was the latter. Whatever John would say to explain this would only be the ghost of an idea that had barely taken shape. 

Sherlock knew that hypnosis was the only option. It was. It _had_ to be.

….Wasn’t it?

The sound of shattered porcelain came from the living room. 

“John?” Sherlock called out. He pushed himself away from his seat, walking quickly towards his friend. 

John’s hand covered his mouth, the other curled into a fist at his side. The skin across his face was tight with fear. He was staring at the unpowered television.

“John?” Sherlock said again. He knew what John would say, but his blood froze with dread all the same when John said, “It’s…the television isn’t even turned on right now, is it?”

“…No,” Sherlock confirmed. John made a sound like he’d been punched.

“What do you see?” Sherlock asked, and John shook his head.

“John, I need to know what you see. This is crucial.” Sherlock hated this. He hated that he had to be the one to ask John to spell out in detail what he was seeing. But he clung to the hope that somewhere in this trauma, or vision, or hallucination that there was something he could glean from this.

“Fuck,” John spat, taking a shaky breath, “it’s just the start of the episode. It’s just the pirate…Pirate Percy. He’s on his ship, uh, fuck it had a name. It had-“ John closed his eyes as if the sight suddenly turned painful. “Laughingstock. The ship’s name was Laughingstock. God, they all look so damned _creepy_. Jesus,” John took another deep breath, and his voice started to shake, “the ship talks remember? It’s telling Percy that he has-“ he made a noise that Sherlock fervently wished he would never hear again, “he has to go inside.”

“Go inside where?” Sherlock asked.

“A cave, just a dark cave. This happened every episode the damned puppet was just so scared to go into the dark.” Sherlock watched as John blindly grabbed at the arm of his favorite chair, eyes still fixated on the television.

“Okay. He’s going in. This is-uh, pretty standard from what I remember,” he giggled and then immediately stopped himself. Sherlock knew he was laughing at the irony of ‘normal’ being involved in any of this. 

For several long minutes, neither of them said a thing. Sherlock had no idea how long this hallucination was meant to last, but he fervently wished it would stop soon. He made himself watch as his best friend underwent a torture he couldn’t personally see or hear.

Hypnosis was almost officially scrapped now. Besides the fact that they had a television, there was no stimulus that would have matched the hypnotic trigger of the victim’s apartment.

“Um, Sherlock?” John said shakily. He’d finally moved to sit in front of the blank television. Sherlock had to resist a strong impulse to yank him from the seat. In that moment, he looked too much like one of the victims. 

“It’s changed now. Pirate Percy is confronting a villain-fuck,” John cut himself off. His hand covered his mouth again, and his fingers began shaking over his lips. “Oh fuck. I forgot, I forgot about him.”

His words carried a weight of horror that Sherlock had never heard before. From John or anyone.

Before Sherlock could ask who he was talking about, John continued, “It’s just, just the minion, the lackey, Horace Horrible. I don’t-don’t know why I’m so scared all of a sudden. But I don’t think-I’m not scared of him Sherlock I’m scared of-Turn it off.” 

John leapt from his seat and scrambled towards the set. 

"Sherlock! Help me turn it off!” Sherlock stood impotently where he was.

"John,” Sherlock tried to say in a calm he didn’t feel, “it isn’t on. This is in your head, you’ve been…tricked. Just calm down.-“

“Sherlock shut up and turn it off now!” John yelled, randomly pressing buttons. The television flickered on at one point, from having randomly pressed the power. But the skit show was gone just as quickly as it appeared. 

John’s throat released an animal noise of vicious terror, until he reached behind the set and unplugged it with a hard yank to the cord.

John’s unsteady breathing filled the air. Slowly, he set the cord down, as far away from the outlet as he could. He slumped down onto the carpet, his knees drawn up and his hands covering his face.   
The shivering hadn’t stopped. Sherlock began to hear tiny snuffling noises. John had always been short to him, but Sherlock had never seen him so _small_. 

“The Skin-Taker.” 

Sherlock realized this was the second time John had said the name. He hadn’t noticed before because it had sounded like crying. 

“The-the villain of the show. I had to turn it off before it showed the Skin-Taker.” John pulled his face from the cradle of his palms, and Sherlock took an involuntary step backward. 

If he had thought John looked scared before, it was because he had never see n a truer definition of the word terrified until now.

“He’s just a skeleton,” John said, “just a dirty skeleton with a top hat and cape but-“ he swallowed. Then he had to swallow again, “but it’s-his clothes were made out of his kid’s skins. Fuck that probably should have been a glaring clue that this show was fucked up, even as a kid. Who the hell would make a child’s show with that kind of villain? I mean he would even say-“

He suddenly ran for the bathroom. Sherlock stepped well out of his path. 

Coughing and hacking sounds arose as soon as he heard John’s knees hit the floor. Sherlock suddenly found that he could move again, and he made his way to John’s side. He knelt down beside him, and hesitantly placed his hand on John’s back and kept it there.

John’s throat bobbed as he swallowed what was left and spat out the rest into the bowl, “He-he said. I mean, it was a catchphrase. A fucking terrifying one, but I guess I didn’t think much of it at the time.” He kept swallowing. 

Sherlock nearly rose to get him a glass of water, but John’s words froze him.

“To grind your skin. That’s…that’s why his jaw moved so weird. That’s what he would say to Pirate Percy. ‘To grind your skin’.”

The gagging noises came back with a vengeance, and John vomited again.


End file.
